


Poster of a Girl

by DotsAndStripes



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, F/M, Hurt Harry Styles, Romantic Comedy, Shameless Smut, Slow Build, Slow Burn, bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2018-10-21 03:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DotsAndStripes/pseuds/DotsAndStripes
Summary: Top 30 under 30. Model. Makeup Guru. Fashion Blogger. Maid of Honour.Cassidy Mendez believes eyeliner should always be on point, femme fatale red lipstick is the answer to everything and you get what you’re willing to work for in life.She does not believe in fairytales. That especially includes falling in love with Harry Styles.  He’s a one night stand several times over, unpredictably moody, a terrible dresser and the best man at her best friend’s wedding. And yet…





	1. i. can't stand by myself

Cassidy Mendez is Canada’s resident social media queen. Millions follow her makeup tutorials on Youtube, her fashion blog ‘Cassidy from Toronto’ and her trendy instagram. This millennial marketer is a shrewd and savvy businesswoman, leveraging her cool girl aesthetic into countless endorsements, a successful modelling career and an upcoming ready to wear line with Holt Renfrew. 

\- Rise Magazine

“Look, I’m sorry. I have to go,” I call out, shuffling into flats and putting my high heels away. Today I had on my favourite pair of thigh high leather boots with a stiletto heel being featured. Stuart Weitzman. I rarely wear them though they are much loved. I borrowed them permanently from my former agency when all of my employment cheques bounced before they went under. I paired them with a long sleeve black dress and a grey faux fur vest. A little black satchel and a crystal Swarovski ring I got from an ex-boyfriend, Sam, is the crowning piece. It’s something to remember our short lived relationship by that wasn’t a headache or a hangover. 

I’d written the copy for the post earlier on the subway, inspired by the first hints of spring in Toronto: slushy sidewalks and bright sunshine. It is bitingly cold still, but I am more than used to pretending I’m not uncomfortable anyway. 

“Cassidy, one more shot and we’ve got this.” He says. I relent and spend another ten minutes putting my shoes back on and posing as if we aren’t in Kensington market in Toronto on a Wednesday evening. James is something more than an acquaintance but less than a friend. For a nominal fee, he shoots my outfit photos for my fashion blog three times a week. 

“Beautiful. I’ll send the photos over shortly.” 

It’s five o’clock and I am supposed to be home in an hour for dinner. I take a quick second to put on tights, take off my ring, wipe off the Lancome red lipstick and replace my vest with a cardigan. I’m about an hour and a half away if traffic holds which of course it doesn’t--not when I get on the streetcar, or on the subway eastbound, nor in a bus packed as tightly as possible with a mix of catholic school kids, parents with small children and other working people. I hate this bus, I hate travelling to Scarborough and I hate the creeping anxiety every minute I see the clock ticking past 6.

“Hi Mama!” I call from the front door. The house I grew up in is a 3 story cookie cutter 1980s home. It looks by design, like every other house on the street with neat hedges and a taupe door and matching garage. Even the interior after all these years is the same, lots of beige, cream, cherry hardwood and white. Boring and suburban. 

“I told you she was coming for dinner. My baby doesn’t miss family dinner.” My mom is petite, coming up to my shoulder. I hug her tightly, tucking her head underneath my chin. Her hair smells of Dove shampoo and a hint of Elizabeth Taylor Diamonds which I got her for Christmas five years ago. My dad pauses his newspaper reading but doesn’t say a word. I almost hold my breath waiting for him to say something.

“Hi Dad,” I manage. Before the tension can go on much longer, two six year old girls in matching princess dresses and tiaras burst out of the living room to greet me.

“Tita Cassy! Hi Tita!” Even though they are no longer that small, I scoop up both of my twin nieces in both arms and kiss their cheeks even though they squirm. Maya and Meredith are adorable with matching ponytails. 

“Daddy said that you would braid our hair,” Maya is the bolder of the two. I doubt my brother did tell her that, but I admire her tenacity.

“If you read a book this coming week and practice piano.” Meredith pouts and makes a face. She is just starting to read and struggles with it. I try to encourage her without seeming unfair. I sit them both down on the floor and brushed out their hair and begin a fishtail braid on opposite sides for them. 

“Daddy look!” They showed my brother. Named after my father, Mark Jr resembled him in other ways as well. Like all Mendez and Ocampo men, he’s built short and stocky. Mark is aware of it though, always withdrawn and quiet as if he’s afraid of startling someone. I am never sure how much of that is the ten year age gap between us. He nods. Something like a smile flits across his face. 

“Cassidy, did Mark tell you about his new cottage?” My dad says. I look directly at Mark and he turns a bit red. We both know this conversation is for my benefit. Mark’s always been embarrassed by the way my father measures out accomplishments in material goods. He, at least, has the kinds of things my father values: watches, golf accoutrements and cars. He’s not nearly as impressed with next season’s Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress. 

“Maybe you would like to come sometime,” his wife Pina added to me kindly. 

My father cut her off, “We’ll all go for Labour day long weekend.”

“I can’t go that weekend. I have work.” It would be Toronto Fashion Week. I’ll be walking in a dozen different shows besides my normal shoots, visiting another friend’s debut show and doing my modelling agency’s showcase. Just the idea of cancelling sets my teeth on edge. I tense then relax in a studied motion. 

“They can get someone else to work. Family comes first,” my father snaps. Typical. I shrug because it makes him angrier. 

“I only get to walk in a Fashion Week a couple times a year. I have to work,” I state flatly. We’ve had the same argument so many different times and ways that I can almost mouth along with his next words.

“What you do is not working. Being a party girl is not work.” Even though my father doesn’t raise his voice, I steel my spine. This is why I hate coming home. I could be seventeen again and living at home when he uses that voice. The one that says nothing I could ever do is important. I’m not a doctor, an engineer or a lawyer. I barely finished an undergraduate degree in Sociology. I don’t even have the prospect of a husband or kids to save me. 

“Mark, bakit?” my mom hisses at him. It’s too late. I get up from the table and smile at everyone.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Pina gets up at the same time.

“I would love to show you my dress for a gala before dinner if you have a chance.” Pina leads me away from the dinner table and I am biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. I knew she is trying to make it better. But she is everything my father wanted in a daughter, a brilliant pediatric surgeon married to my brother (also a surgeon) who is a great mother to her kids. I don’t compare. I never compare next to her and Mark. 

“Hey. I saw you in the top 30 under 30. That’s pretty impressive eh? Your mom showed me a copy.” I am trying to blink back tears hard. I choke out a thank you. We sit in the other room and she talks a little about her backless jade Alfred Sung gown. Enough so by the time we have to sit down for dinner, I am composed. I pick at my mom’s pancit with my stomach churning. I tell charming little anecdotes from my recent trip to Vancouver, ask the girls to tell me what they learned in school and laugh loudly at their stories. 

“Cassidy, are you going to stay the night?” My mom asks sadly, watching me put my coat on to leave with my brother to save myself a bus ride. I haven’t been upstairs in my childhood home in at least six years now, and the thought makes me shiver. Everything I wanted I took out of this house when I had the chance. 

“No. I can’t. Sorry. But you should text me when you’re at one of the downtown hospitals this week. We can have lunch.” I kiss her on the cheek and hug her again. I smile, but it feels brittle.


	2. ii: hate to sleep alone

“Cassidy?” A group of three Filipina girls no older than fourteen surround me in the middle of shopping for tampons at the drugstore in the Eaton Centre. I shove the box back at the shelf.

“That’s me.” I answer brightly. 

“We love your Youtube videos. They’re pretty cool even though my mom won’t let me wear makeup,” says the tallest one. I beam. 

“You’re lovely without it,” I tell her. She blushes. “Can I get a selfie with all of you?” I ask them before they have the chance to ask me. It delights them and they crowd around and throw up peace signs. 

“So nice to meet you! Say hi if you see me again, okay?” I blow air kisses after them. The woman with her toddler next to me eyes me suspiciously but I pick my tampon box back up and stroll to the checkout with a bounce in my step. It’s the same feeling as when I post a good photo or I get emailed by a brand. 

I barely make it in time for my Tabata class. I shorten my intervals for the first couple exercises until I’m sweating enough to satisfy myself. I stand at the back anyway, no makeup and ratty red Nikes. 

Afterwards, even though I feel like collapsing, I change into a black sheath dress and slick on a Chanel red called La Malicieuse for extra confidence. It’s almost always red lipstick these days, but I choose based on the effect I want. This one is always ‘don’t mess with me’. I walk to Holt Renfrew even though it’s a couple blocks away and my feet ache. 

“Ms. Mendez, welcome.” One of the valets calls. After my third meeting here, he remembers my name and opens the door to the department store with a gloved hand and a flourish. As much as I love the beauty section, I walk past all of the brightly lit counters and up the escalators to the offices. 

“Hi Evelyn.” I call to the secretary. I sit in the reception area, fold my hands in my lap and wait. The transparent art deco chair I am perched on was picked for looks not comfort. The first time I had a meeting here I made the mistake of taking out my phone and I sat there for twenty minutes. If I sit and stare at her while thinking how much this is wasting my time, Sebastien and Andre show up almost immediately. 

“Cassidy, darling.” I air kiss both of them. 

“Hope you’ve had a great week,” I say with a bit of an edge. I’m nervous. So nervous I’m gripping my handbag in front of me like a shield, nails making soft indents in the buttery leather. They lead me into a concrete room, with a large drafting table in the centre and a storage room at the other end. Last week there were bolts of fabric everywhere, pinned to dress forms and blown up sketches on gloss paper. 

“Of course,” Andre murmurs. I reach into my bag and pull out a sketchpad.

“Did you draw these?” Sebastien reaches for the notepad and looks at my sketches. While I’m no Van Gogh, I can draw any piece of clothing. That’s often how I plan outfit ideas. 

“Yes.” I watch them both flip through the book. It is the exact opposite of everything they showed me last week. Clean lines, red, white and charcoal. 

“You’re both talented, talented designers.” I begin. I hesitate and they both look at me. “Last week’s planning meeting was a mess. So no more kimonos. No one needs another pair of black pants. I really would prefer we stay away from copycat designs. This is what Cassidy from Toronto would wear. That’s what this collection is.”

They both look thoughtful rather than offended. A few times for the rest of the meeting I have to interrupt as they lapse into speaking French but by the end I feel like we might gradually be getting to something I actually want to slap my name on. I take a quick photo of my cape idea with a piece of leather pinned to it for my blog later on. 

Once that meeting is done, I force myself to walk home instead of taking the subway. It helps me think, even if the sun is starting to go down and it’s freezing cold. My phone rings and I fumble for a few minutes with my gloves before slipping them off to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Cass. It’s Zayn.” Zayn Malik is my best friend’s boyfriend. We’re friendly but we don’t normally call each other. But he’s a total sweetheart and the reason I barely see Sophie at home anymore. Once he bought a place in Toronto, she left her apartment to me rent-free as long as I paid the internet and phone bill. 

“I know you said you weren’t sure if you could make it tomorrow night but I’m going to propose to her, so I really want you there.” I stop in the middle of my street. I joked with Sophie they were practically married, but he is going to ask her to marry him for real. 

“I’m a nervous wreck to be perfectly honest,” he confesses. 

“What does the ring look like? You didn’t buy a diamond did you?” I demand. 

“Of course not. She made me watch that horrifying documentary. It’s vintage from Camden Market. White gold with a sapphire. I’ll send you a picture.” 

He does. I’m almost breathless from how stunning it is even just cradled in his hand. The ring is tiny and delicate but it really seems like something Sophie would love and I tell him as much. 

“Harry knows too, of course.” 

I snort, saving my energy for climbing up the stairs to the apartment. Harry Styles and I have met a handful of times over the last few years and I couldn’t conjure any feeling warmer than mild disdain. He once called me Cassandra and introduced me to a friend of his as a fashion designer. I know about his lack of attention to detail and not much else. 

“Does he comprehend human emotions?” I ask. Zayn chuckles pleasantly.

“Oh come off it. I think you’d get along given the chance.” He says. 

“That’s the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard.” I say it with a smile before hanging up. I peek at the ring once more before deleting the picture before I accidentally send it to Sophie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr - dotsandstripesxo


	3. iii: so i take somebody home

I can’t believe I’m wasting a good outfit on this early dinner date. 

I passed my three drink limit before dinner even arrived. The house white is barely drinkable, but I order another glass. My friend, another Toronto blogger Liora set me up with one of her boyfriend’s work friends. I refuse to date or fuck anyone I might ever have to work with, which nixes most of my friends and acquaintances. Even so, it took about a month of her asking before I agreed to this. 

“Where are you from?” He asks. I stare for a second. 

“I’m from Scarborough. Born and raised.” 

“No, but...where is your family from?” I just barely catch myself before I roll my eyes. 

“Philippines.” This is enough for him to tell me about his year backpacking in South East Asia, as if passing through Manila once is supposed to convince me that he’s adventurous. 

Alex, or Alec has been blathering on and on about himself for the last eighty three minutes. I’d not gotten more than a few words edgewise since I said that I work as an image consultant, a good decoy for men whose only experience with the fashion world was the Devil Wears Prada or who hear “model” and think “trophy”. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go to a friend’s birthday party and dinner’s run a bit later than I thought.” I tell him. “Can I have the bill please?” I ask the waiter. Alex goes for his wallet and I drop my rarely used black platinum credit card for the effect. I usually split the bill for a first date, but I’m paying for the convenience of being able to leave now. Alex looks at the card then me. 

“What did you say you do again?” He finally asks. 

“Oh, just a little of this and that.” I kiss his cheek at the table and block his number right outside the restaurant. Good riddance.   
To: Liora 18:45  
Your boyfriend needs new friends. 

From: Liora 18:46  
Don’t tell me this one skipped out on the bill too?!

I walk to a pub about three blocks from Zayn’s place and order a double vodka soda and sip it until it’s time for the party. I haven’t been tipsy for a while, so when I stand up too quickly in my stilettos, my knees almost buckle. I feel a hand at my back steadying me. 

“I’ll settle our tabs.” His voice is husky and quiet, just a hint of a soft English accent. It’s familiar enough I know that voice, but it’s still a surprise when I turn around and it’s Harry Styles. 

“You don’t have to do that,” I say defensively. Harry shrugs and hands over his credit card anyway. His hand annoyingly, is still firmly on my lower back. Large warm and callused, it lingers there until we walk out into the street. It sends tingles up my spine. Christ, if even Harry Styles will do it for me I need to get laid.

“Rough week?” He says. I nod. This is about as cordial as we’ve ever been. I hardly know him, but he also hardly knows me and has never seemed to want to. 

“You?” I ask. He searches my face for a second and when he exhales, a hint of the intoxicating smell of whiskey wisps over my face. It smells woody with peat undertones.

“Nothing of any consequence,” he says. 

We step into the party and go our separate ways without another word. There are no more than twenty people here, so it has a dinner party vibe. I make myself a vodka soda behind the counter aware that I’m the outsider here. Everyone is en couple, lots of young professionals who will have one glass of wine and go home. Their friends are a straightlaced bunch and I cut in and out of conversations about city planning, condo fees and new books. I feel like I’m not a real adult next to these young professional types even as a girl interrupts to ask me about my shoes (Valentino) and makeup (YSL Touche Eclat and Clinique lipstick in Runaway Coral). Everyone is polite but distant. 

When everyone seems to have arrived, the music cuts out and Zayn drops to one knee. 

“Sophie, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I love you more than I ever believed possible.” Zayn brings out the tiny velvet box and presents the ring. “Will you marry me?” 

Sophie is in total shock, staring from the ring to him before bowling him over with a kiss. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

I watch my best friend agree to marry the love of her life. I hug her tightly though I can’t conjure up excitement. All I feel is a sense of profound sadness. I quickly dab my eyes as Sophie shows off the ring and people clap Zayn on the back. I tilt back the next vodka soda almost without thinking.

“Are you a middle aged divorcee?” Harry gestures at my drink.

“What I am is terribly bored.” I say. My veins are thrumming with adrenaline and alcohol. I’m cutting myself on the edge of a dozen feelings I don’t want to examine. 

Harry deliberately skims my figure with his eyes. I find his interest puzzling after a couple years of indifference. But I like his playful teasing tone. 

“If you’re bored, we should get out of here.”

Somewhere in my head alarm bells are going off telling me this is not the best idea I’ve ever had. For whatever reason, I can’t possibly recall. He leaves first. I wait five minutes and then grab my coat. He is downstairs in the lobby with a cab, idling. Harry doesn’t look the least bit surprised that I followed. 

The minute the car door closes, he kisses me hungrily. No gentleness here, just teasing nips and possessiveness. He still tastes of whiskey--a fine one with a little burn in the back of the throat. I shiver. He’s ruined my lipstick without a doubt; I can see some smeared the faintest prettiest pink on him under the passing streetlights. Harry throws a wad of brightly coloured bills at the cab driver when we stop, likely more than our fare given the short distance. He grabs my hand and we go to the back entrance and breathlessly climb up two flights of stairs to an apartment that must be his. I barely get a chance to look around before we get to his bedroom. 

Without preamble, he unbuttons his shirt and kicks off his pants, socks and shoes. He’s wearing nothing but boxers while I’m fully dressed still, in my black Diane von Fustenberg dress and heels. 

“Your turn,” he says. I carefully step out of the dress and kick off my shoes. His fingers reach me first and unsnap the garters holding up my hose. Harry skims them off my body unceremoniously. He pauses to kiss me once more.

“Did you come over for this or am I misreading you?” He asks me. 

“I certainly didn’t come over to talk.” I tell him. Before he can react, I push him onto the bed and climb on top, being sure to brush as closely to him as possible. He jerks upwards then wraps an arm around me. 

“Cheeky. Condoms are in the first drawer of the night stand.” For the first time this evening he sounds genuinely amused. He kisses me indulgently as if he brought me over for just these embraces. When I finally start to get impatient, he flips me onto the bed. The moment he enters me we both exhale loudly. It takes a bit of stopping and starting but we get our rhythm eventually. 

He is good at this. I suspected he would be. I dig my nails into his hips to make him go faster with me until I could feel the impending sunburst behind my lids and closed my eyes. A few moments later, Harry is panting, half lidded and pupils still blown out. There were tiny red crescents where my hands were. 

The last thing I remember before falling asleep is Harry grabbing my waist, and whispering in my ear, “You’re lovely.”


	4. iv: to find out how i feel

I wake up disoriented. The light shining through the windows is softer than usual and coming from the wrong direction. The bed is feather soft, with a white duvet. I sleep with several mismatched covers layered on top of each other. When a curly lock of hair spills into my field of vision, I know exactly where I am.

“Fuck.”

I grab my phone and swipe away all notifications including a text from Sophie wondering where I’d gone. It is six am, and the subway will start running again. I feel surprisingly clear headed. If I felt a little bit hungover, I could chalk it all up to being bored, horny and drunk. I slip back on my dress, brush my teeth with a finger in his ensuite, find my hose and stuff it into my clutch. I open his bedroom door to place my heels in the hallway and he rolls over. 

“Good morning,” I say. He’s even handsome sleepy eyed and yawning. My eyes dip briefly to where the sheet have pooled around his waist. I can see in more detail all the tattoos I had run my fingers and lips across.

“Good morning,” Harry replies. “The door will lock automatically when you shut it behind you.” 

Nothing else. We’ve gone back to whatever we were like before yesterday evening. He seems bothered by the way his eyes refuse to meet mine. I leave in silence. 

When I walk out of the lobby, I almost laugh. I’m right in the middle of Yorkville, because if Harry Styles is going to rent a condo in Toronto, why would he bother with any neighbourhood with character? His street is that of unimaginative bankers and first name partners who don’t like being too far from the office. I take the streetcar home for a proper shower before heading back out. 

My phone rings as I show up to set at exactly 6:55 am. 

“Cassidy, are you going to be late?” my agent Ivan asks.

“I’m never late. I’m at the front door. I would love a green tea if you have one, my dearest.” Ivan hangs up and opens the door with my green tea in hand. I love good customer service. Also, my agency. 

“I’m not going to be on site today. You should be fine though. Call me if anything.”

Even the caffeine does me no good. I’ve met my makeup artist Sasha before, but I let her chatter away happily without asking about her kit or my look. Instead, I’m thinking of Harry fucking Styles, behaving as if he’s bored of me. Or disgusted. Possibly both. No signs of the smiles from yesterday evening, the spark of something between us. 

The stylist thankfully has no interest in chatting with me at all. I nod at the other three models from different agencies but we don’t speak much after the most tentative of greetings. It’s almost absurd to be shooting autumn clothes in the beginnings of the spring, but we layer clothing on as instructed. 

Before I know it, the shoot is over. I give Ivan a quick call and head off to shoot an outfit. Then shoot a quick Youtube tutorial on dewy skin and edit it. I also call my agency to make sure my schedule is workable for Fashion Week though it’s still months off. I’m drafting a response to an email from Sebastien when Sophie calls. 

“Sophie?”

“Hey lady, can you come to dinner next week at my house?” 

“Of course,” I murmur. 

“Great!” 

The rest of the week passes in a blur of photo shoots and pre-recordings and storyboarding new videos and making a more efficient blog schedule. I don’t plan anything outside of my career besides nights with Sophie, so there’s also a night where I go dancing to nineties hits with Liora in a dingy bar. 

When I arrive at Sophie’s house on Wednesday, I see Harry first and freeze. I was expecting a girls’ dinner with lots of wine and pasta. Usually Zayn would peek out and say hello but it was always just the two of us. 

“Harry, nice to see you again.” I put on the same smile I use when I’m working, . I don’t like that look he’s got on, like we’re the only ones in on a joke. I am not going to tell Sophie about our encounter, because it was a slip of judgement that would never happen again. Zayn once told to me that sometimes it seemed like he hardly knew Harry at all. So I knew the confession wouldn’t come from that corner. 

“Cassidy, come listen to what I’ve been working on.” Zayn is beaming. His laptop is hooked up to sound equipment but he hands me headphones. A mellow honey sweet female voice with a bit of a rasp croons to me about loving the wrong person. 

“That voice. I really love that she’s got a really great mid-nineties hiphop vibe. I love it.” I gush. 

“I signed her because she sounds like early Ashanti but she’s got a lovely range,” Zayn adds. 

“Yeah, absolutely and with a touch of soul,” I say. Harry hasn’t said a word, and I note that Zayn didn’t invite him to listen. Zayn’s a producer now, something to do with music after the band broke up that keeps him happy. But as far as I know, Harry’s primary occupations are tabloid fodder and dating various celebrities, both at once if he’s feeling ambitious. 

As the table is laid out, I adjust some of the dishes out of habit and snap a few overhead pictures. Zayn and Sophie are used to my pictures of, well, everything but Harry can barely hold back a huff of annoyance.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks. 

“It’s my job.”

He purses his lips. “Really.”

He rolls his eyes as if the idea of my lifestyle and work is beneath him. Silly. Inconsequential. I get my back up before I even know it. 

“Harry--” Zayn has a warning tone I only ever hear him use with Harry. 

“I get paid to do it. I’m sure you don’t know what that’s like anymore. You know, getting paid for things you do on a regular basis.” That remark is pointed. I look at my manicure while saying it. 

“Cassidy--” Sophie reaches under the table and pinches my thigh. 

“Not a clue. Bless royalties if it means I don’t have to do that.” His voice drips with contempt. This is the same person I’ve slept with. He’s not a nice person. But neither am I. 

“My darling, you couldn’t do it even if you wanted to. No one cares what you do anymore.” That’s not strictly true but true enough it will sting. I pause. “Does anyone want salad?”

I pick up my fork and serve everyone salad and pasta nonchalantly. I can see Zayn and Sophie making faces at each other, and although I pretend I’m unaware, I can tell Harry’s slightly bewildered. Poor thing. He must be used to girls who wouldn’t have said a damn thing back.

We made terrible stilted conversation, with neither Harry or I talking directly to each other but instead relaying to either Sophie or Zayn.

“We actually invited you over to ask you both something important,” Sophie began. “Do you think we should--?” Zayn dutifully picks up two white boxes from their room and comes back out. 

“Well, we haven’t decided who else we’d ask, but we wanted to ask you both right away.” Zayn opens the first box with a simple but sleek watch. 

“Harry, I’d like you to be my best man. You’re my best friend and I’m not sure what I’d do without you.”

“Of course.” Harry holds out his left wrist, Zayn snaps the watch around his wrist and they half heartedly embrace one another. Harry is smiling. Not the shy tentative smile he offers up to strangers, or the sly smile for flirting I saw last night, but genuine joy. 

“Cassidy, who else could it be but you? Will you be my maid of honour?”

A bracelet is in her box. It’s a simple silver band with a sailor’s knot and I wipe away the tears blurring my vision. When I think of what it might have been like to be close to a sibling, I think of Sophie. I think of university ‘’nights, long distance calls and emails that made me smile when little else would. She reached up and cupped my cheeks gently.

“I know you’re really busy, Cassie. I’ll have a wedding planner take care of all the traditional stuff, I promise.” I brush back a curl from her face and shake my head wordlessly.

“No need. I always have time for you, Soph. I’m happy for you.” We lean forward and touch foreheads, scrunching our noses at each other. Zayn and Harry quietly exited the room when we both started laughing in the midst of the tears.This is probably an entire year’s worth of emotional display for us both. I don’t care.


	5. v: find the exit sign

“This restaurant is expensive. I could make better food at home,” Mom huffs. “I could come to your apartment and cook for you Bunso.”

My mother still calls me youngest when I’m twenty-four. 

She did however, say it loudly enough the next table at the trendy Queen Street West restaurant looks over in interest and one girl checks something on her phone and mouths something that looks like my name to her friend. Moments later, a notification confirms it. 

“I know Nanay, but I wanted you to relax,” I say, placatingly. I’ve never seen her outside of her nurses’ scrubs without something--a swipe of lipstick, a scarf, a necklace my father bought her. Today it is a silver watch from my brother’s wife Pina. She’s just come from a shift, so it’s simple black slacks and a white button down for her outfit. 

We’re at brunch and high tea at Sons & Daughters. It’s rustic, with reclaimed live edge tables and mismatched fine china. I’m delighted by it, a little undiscovered gem.They’ve asked me to come in and post something on social media for a free meal for two and a hundred bucks. Sold. I’d do it for free brunch. The place is quieter than I would expect but it’s still only a month old. I’m tempted not to post about it, to keep this lovely place to myself. 

“How can I relax when I don’t know if you’re eating well, Cassidy Anne?” She grumbles. But she drops the topic in favour of telling me about her workplace gossip and my favourite, stories about Maya and Meredith. I enjoy my eggs benedict with smoked salmon and she eats her fruit salad and oatmeal with minimum fussing.

“Have you thought about an MBA, darling? You’re so smart, it would be easy for you. You’re already in business,” Mom says after the meal, while lingering over mimosas. 

Every time I see her now, she seems just a little bit older. I’m listening to her, but bent over my phone editing a photo of the place setting for my post. I make a noncommittal sound. She’s much less insistent than my father but not a pushover.

“Cassidy Anne, look at me when I’m talking to you.” I put down my phone, face down and fold my hands in my lap. 

“I’ve thought about it,” I admit. My mom waits for me to finish my thought. “I don’t think it would be a good fit.” I’m treading carefully, hoping she’ll drop it. 

She doesn’t.

“What is going to happen to your career later? I know it doesn’t matter now, but in five years? Ten years?”   
“Are you okay Nanay? You seem a little tired,” I say instead. 

I’ve got my phone in my hands again, like it’s the anchor keeping me from being caught up in this emotional discomfort. Her voice is low, insistent and so worried. I don’t dare look her directly in the face so I look at our hands on the table. I feel guilty. I feel angry about feeling guilty. 

“I’m okay. But I want you to be okay. I promised your father I’d talk to you about this but working isn’t everything Cassidy. You need to give yourself a chance to be happy.” 

Her words weigh on me heavily all through the next week. But I don’t do anything differently, right up until I pack my bags to go to Los Angeles for a convention appearance. At the check-in, I spot Phillippa Harlow with pastel purple pixie cut. My eyes almost slip past her, in jeans and an oversized shirt. I don’t normally see her in normal clothes at conventions. 

“Pip! Hey!” I wave. She waves back and by the time I cross the hotel lobby, she crushes me in a hug despite being even more petite than me. 

“Cassie baby, you look fabulous as always.” If I’m an ice queen, she’s all fire--a mile a minute fast talking firecracker with a New Jersey accent. Pip has two full sized school trunks and two massive suitcases stacked next to her.

“Where’s the rest of it?” If I know Pip, she has brought at least 6 possible cosplay costumes for the weekend, even besides the ones she’d be selling. 

“Oh, I’ll show you everything. Are you one twenty sixth floor too?” 

We spend the rest of the evening before the reception sipping room service root beer floats on her hotel room and catching up. I wish Pip didn’t live so far because I keep thinking about what if it could be like this once a week in some bar. I can count the friends I see on a regular basis who actually live in my city on one hand. Depressing. 

“How’s Frederick?” I ask. She gushes about her high school sweetheart and now fiance. I met him once in New York. He’s a good natured quiet guy--handsome but in a sort of lumberjack way. He doesn’t ‘get’ YouTube or cosplaying but he’s supportive of her in a sweet way as evidenced by the flowers in the room when she arrived. She shows me pictures of their french bulldog puppy Napoleon and I melt.

“Is there anyone since you broke up with Sam?” Pip asks.

“No.” But Harry immediately comes to mind, and I can feel myself flushing with some irritation. “He was a one night stand and we don’t like each other very much when we’re both sober.” She arches one eyebrow at me. 

“You’re never going to just come to a convention and say ‘I met this guy at a party and we went on a few dates’ huh?” I roll my eyes at her. 

“Mind showing me how you did the makeup for this shoot?” 

X

Not bringing or hiring an assistant is the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Last year, my table was relatively quiet. After all, I don’t sell anything. The idea of writing a book bores me, I won’t have a fashion line until the autumn and a t-shirt with my face on it is horrifying to me. But word must have spread, because a couple of con volunteers are wrangling the line, and I whisper directions to the photographer--who I was thankfully smart to get for the meet and greet. The line is mostly younger teen girls, but there are a few older women, school age kids and a few men as well. 

I exhale and smile. The first group is all wearing shirts that look like my video blog banner except they say their names and locales instead of ‘Cassidy from Toronto.’ I break a personal rule and give them all big hugs before taking a picture. The next is twelve year old Keisha and her mom and she mumbles that I’m really cool while her mom smiles behind her. After we pose for a picture, I take out one of my custom Marc Jacobs jeweled hair pins and hand it to her. It has my initials engraved in the side. Her eyes go wide, and I put my finger to my lips.

By hour three, I’m tired. By hour five, I’m struggling to keep up the sparkle for every single person and I’m an hour over schedule. One person asked for a lock of my hair and even hideous kitten heels are starting to hurt. So when my phone goes off, I make my apologies and finally go to the backstage lounge, flashing my VIP pass before sitting on a couch.

“Sophie?”

“Are you busy? Can we talk?” I don’t like the wavering tone in her voice.

“Of course not. Isn’t it like one in the morning there?” 

Sophie’s silent for a second before started. “So we decided to go up to Bradford and tell his family after telling Aunt Wanda. They were so happy. Everyone starts talking about whether we should have a traditional wedding or a Western one. Who needs to be invited. Obviously it has to be in London. Obviously I should have a mehndi. Trisha and the girls started talking about making appointments for gown shopping and I asked them not to.”

“And then?” Because Sophie has gone silent again. 

“And Safaa says ‘well it’s not like you’ve got any family to go with.’ ” Sophie continues in a barely there whisper. I gasp. 

“She did not!” I jump up from my chair and nearly snap my heel off. 

“I know, I know, she’s thirteen. And Trisha was furious at her for saying it. But everyone was acting like it, she was just the only person who said it out loud.”

“That’s still awful, Soph” I knew how much Sophie still misses her mother and my stomach churns in sympathy. 

“I was hoping you’d give me a pep talk and tomorrow morning I’d be able to tell everyone what I want.” 

“What do you want out of the wedding?” 

Sophie laughs softly. “I want to elope in St Tropez. Failing that, I want a wedding in Toronto. I want to wear my traditional Ghanian clothing but I don’t know if that would be silly. I want it to be quiet. I’m not even wearing my ring because we get followed around so much in London and I don’t want to be hounded for a year and a half while this is going on.”

She sighs and it pulls at my heart strings. 

“Look, you’re going to have a fabulous wedding. His family was excited but it’s about you and Zayn. You will be surrounded by people you love and who love you. Everyone knows how you feel about this stuff. It will be okay.”

“One more favour Cass? I know you’ll end up hanging out with Harry a lot. I know you don’t like each other but it would really make me feel better if you could...well, people will think what they think about seeing you together but please just try to get along. Just a little.”


	6. vi: all that was ours

Merely a week later, Harry and I are in the same room again. Instead of Sophie and Zayn’s apartment, we’re in the Wedding division of Sparkle, the event planning company Sophie works for. It’s after hours, and we’re all sitting around a drafting table with giant chart paper. Sophie’s chewing on the end of a pencil, Zayn pacing around adding ideas in black sharpie. I’m here for moral support and on my best behaviour.

I try not to look at Harry which is hard to do when he’s directly across from me. He’s sprawled out in his borrowed desk chair, checking his phone in between comments and smiling. I wonder what could possibly breaking through his near permanent scowling. 

“I think that two weddings might be more work than it’s worth to be honest,” I interject.

“She’s right Zayn. You won’t like it and you’ll be exhausted.” Harry chimes in. I nearly die of shock that he agrees with me on anything. 

Sophie borrows Zayn’s sharpie to cross that out on the list. Still, there are fifty other bullets left listing things like destination wedding and chalet. I look over again, and Harry’s smiling at his phone. This smile is like an eclipse, brief but stunning. But when he catches me looking at him his expression turns back to mildly studious. Bored. I stick my tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes. It’s satisfying though childish. 

An argument finally breaks out after two hours. We still have nothing down but that a wedding will happen next summer. No city, no type of venue, no idea of how many guests. Sophie’s sitting in her chair and ripping up tiny pieces of paper. I’ve stopped offering anything but tentative polite suggestions but Zayn and Sophie are so annoyed with each other, Harry and I might as well not be here. 

“We have talked about this Zayn. I can’t do this. I just can’t. I do corporate events. This is too much work. You want a champagne fountain at your Christmas party in Zurich? Call me up. This could be solved by an actual wedding planner. Chris would be wonderful. He’s just started his own company and this would mean a lot to him.”

“We’re not hiring your bloody ex-boyfriend to be a wedding planner. Over my dead fucking body.” Zayn puts down his sharpie and he’s using his calm and quiet voice which means he’s really upset. It seems like Sophie’s brought it up before. Mentioning any part of the year they were with other people is like throwing a molotov cocktail into a dinner party. 

“He’s engaged to be married. What is your problem? Are you going to ban him from the wedding party too?” Sophie asks, defiantly. She throws down her pencil on the ground and draws herself up to her full height. 

“Who said anything about him being an usher?” He counters. Zayn drops his sharpie on the desk.

“So we should invite an auntie who is not related to you you haven’t seen in a decade but one of my best friends can’t be in the wedding?” Sophie’s gesturing at the mess of a guest list pinned to one wall. 

“Well, I didn’t fucking sleep with her, did I?” I involuntarily hiss. 

“Oh my god. Do you ever let anything go? Weren’t you engaged to someone else at the time, you complete jerk? Do you even care what I want?” 

Usually they are the very portrait of a loving modern couple but both of them are practically yelling. Zayn is needling Sophie on purpose and she’s not backing down. 

“These two need to finish their argument,” Harry whispers in my ear and it raises the hair on the back of my neck. I hadn’t even realized he was behind me. 

“Sort it out. Ta, we’re fucking off,” Harry announces. When I don’t move, he briefly looks back. I get up and follow after him with Zayn and Sophie still arguing, more insistent and earnest but still uncomfortable. I’m not sticking around.

“What’s there to do around here?” Harry asks. We’re strolling sort of aimlessly in the Distillery District, the sun setting early enough that it’s dark out and the windows of bars and condos shed scant light as we pass them by, walking side by side. 

“I have a name, you know. It’s not Cassandra,” I say. I don’t know what to make of the fact he asked my opinion and he hasn’t run off either. Feels weird when we’re both sober. 

“I know your name, Mendez. It’s Cassidy.” Going straight for the last name makes me feel like I’m in high school again but the distance in it is comfortable for me.

“You’re going to call me Mendez like some sort of second rate soccer player?

“No, like a third rate footie player,” he says.

I smirk. 

“Bet I could beat you in one on one.” He looks at my Sam Edelman stilettos and short black dress and doesn't say anything. If I can't beat an idle boybander I'll give all my shoes to charity. His lips twitch briefly into an almost smile. 

We end up at Pho 1999, a tiny jam packed restaurant on the edge of the District. They were one of the first restaurants I ever did a sponsored post for and I like to stop by.

“Deedee, you brought a friend.” The restaurant owner had nicknamed me when I used to eat here once a day when I first left my parent's house before living with Sophie or going to Vancouver. When she figured out it was usually my only meal for the day, she stopped taking my crumpled bills at all even when the shop was empty. 

“This is Harry.” She squints at him briefly through her wire rimmed glasses that are constantly sliding to the end of her nose and tapping the pencil in her hair. Harry looks vaguely uncomfortable being subject to such scrutiny and I enjoy it. 

“Tell me your secret Auntie, why do you look younger every time I see you?” She tweaks my nose and laughs. 

“Sit in the back. It's busy.” She calls in Vietnamese to one of the servers and he leads us to an enclave in the back. Sophie’s told me Harry’s a bit better when he’s not in public and I’m trying to get along with him. After all, if we’re going to spend time together we can be friendly. It turns out she’s right because one on one we get along fine. In this tiny sideroom with mismatched chairs he’s still not quite talkative but we talk about Toronto and good food. 

At the end of the meal, we walk out, and Harry pauses. We’re just a few blocks from my apartment and I think about how empty it is. Before my brain can overrule the impulse, I look at him. He’s looking expectantly at me, all pretty green eyes and lip biting and too much YSL in one outfit. For the love of God, I have no self-control. 

“You could come over.”


	7. vii: chart of stars

“Alright,” he says. We fall into step, quietly and the few inches of space between myself and Harry is positively electric. 

I look at my apartment (well Sophie's) with new eyes. It's probably the first time I've brought someone new and definitely the only time without me scrambling to clean and clear the entryway of every pair of shoes I've tried on in a week. I'm embarrassed. He has this gorgeous, minimalist if lifeless condo in Yorkville. I have a cute but tiny shoebox of a condo lent to me by a friend. It's rustic and warm at least. I do better than I used to but I'm not going to test my income against a downtown market rate rent. 

“Quick question: do you have a girlfriend?” I draw the line at affairs. 

He snorts. “Even I wouldn't date me. I haven't had a girlfriend in a couple years.” I name a pop star he was rumoured to be seeing. He laughs a little too hard at that and I narrow my eyes. 

“I don’t really do relationships,” Harry says. And that’s about what I expect if I think about it. 

He looks over the couch at all of the Polaroids of me and my friends. London with Sophie, pizza with Pip in New York, a cute photo of me Sam had taken of me at the Toronto International Film Festival, me and the twins, a pretty sunset on a beach. 

“You've got a good eye Mendez,” he says neutrally. 

“Thanks.” 

After all this, I'm the one that makes the first move. I touch his shoulder he turns to face me. And I kiss him, no preamble or mistaking what I’m asking for. His kisses are every bit as sweet and leisurely as they were several weeks ago. He walks us backwards into my room until the back of my knees hit the mattress. No further though, we stay upright. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, nipping at my neck.

“Yes.” I’m embarrassed by how breathy my voice sounds to my ears. 

“Is this a habit now?” His voice is teasing even as he skims a hand up my thigh and pulls me to him. 

“Never,” I lie. It’s not. Two times does not a habit make. If that was the case I would floss twice a day and never leave half drunk cups of green tea on my bedstand. This is just a bit of occasional fun.

I pull him down onto the bed with me and he’s knocked a little off balance. This is not about feelings, but a bit of comfort and stress relief. Still though, that doesn’t stop me from noting while I don’t exactly like Harry, I do enjoy being around him.

We’ve switched roles. This time I’m the tentative one, and he holds and touches me without hesitation. Exhaling slowly, while he traces a path south with his fingers, and then gasping with surprise when his hand dips between my thighs. He bites his lip and looks directly into my eyes. It’s not possible to go on autopilot when he makes me hyper aware of everything: our breaths mingling, the dim lighting from the bedside lamp, how quiet it is and right now every cell of mine seems to be attuned to his. 

Harry rolls us over a bit later and I yield softly. 

While I’m lounging on my bed after my shower, he takes a shower. I don’t bother hiding all the products crowding my counter. He already thinks I’m vain, might as well let him see it. Steam billows under the door as he turns the shower on and I catch a few drifting notes of song. 

His voice is tentative. I can almost hear a bit of a wistful smile in his voice and a brief chill passes through me. I only catch about half the words about hoping someone will come home. I’ve heard a concert or two in my time, but this is the first time I’ve heard him solo. I give myself a shake and go back to browsing Instagram. I mean, of course he can sing. Those royalty cheques aren’t for being pretty. 

When he comes back out, I’ve put on my cute lounging clothes, an oversized long sleeve and thigh high socks that skim the hem of the shirt. He pointedly looks at my face. 

“You had fun?” He sounds almost nervous.

“I did. Did you have fun?” I ask, still sprawled on the bed. 

“Loads of fun,” and he does smile a little. When he’s dressed, he heads straight for the door. 

“See you around, yeah?”

“This was a twice in a lifetime deal, Styles.” He snorts. 

The rest of the evening and next morning passes in a breeze. I hum to myself writing copy about brands, and I haven’t enjoyed doing it since I was a newbie blogger wearing H&M and putting a self timer on my family’s point and shoot. Usually striking the tone between sounding professional, like an ad or completely flippant takes a couple drafts. I even cheerily call up Ivan. 

“No, Cassidy, I’m not sending you out on any more casting calls this quarter. Leave some work for the other models. There’s a such thing as market oversaturation,” Ivan, my agent, has this conversation with me once a month. 

“I don’t have a non compete clause in my contract,” I remind him. 

“I’m going to start sending you calls for appliance and over the counter medication commercials,” He says deadpan. 

“Oh good. I look really cute in pastel cardigans.” I shoot back. I can hear the bit of a laugh as he hangs up and no doubt, starts researching the Chicago indie show I want to walk in. I generally don’t look at unsolicited emails from designers, but the pictures of their eveningwear are stunning. 

I’m in a good mood until I realize I’ve made myself late for dinner at my parents’ house yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to me  
> tumblr: dotsandstripesxo


	8. viii: tunnel vision

I wish I could pinpoint a moment where we became strangers.

It wasn't always like this. It certainly feels like it right now, sitting at my parents’ dining table on my best behaviour. 

I remember Dad letting me play in his office upstairs while he studied for his engineering license. I must have been five, sitting at his feet with crayons and construction paper and pretending to study along with him. There was soft sunlight, a threadbare rug that belonged to my great grandfather that always smelled of dust and cinnamon. Before I outgrew that phase, I made him a certificate when he passed his exam. He hangs it next to his real degree. 

At least, he used to. I don’t know if he does anymore. 

“How is Sam? Still overseas? ” Mom asks while putting more rice on my plate. She liked my ex-boyfriend. 

“We spoke a couple months ago. He’s in Berlin or Singapore now. He’s doing some travel magazines and exhibits I think.” I mostly see him on Instagram and then we text like clockwork around holidays. Sometimes he sends me postcards, and I linger on them for a few days before throwing them in a drawer. I send him hotel stationary and the pen whenever there’s any in my hotel room. 

“The exhibit he did at the Art Gallery was interesting,” My brother Mark pipes up. I had forgotten he showed up there. He was there after a resident shift in a suit and tie, even though he was more of a polos and khakis kind of guy. 

We chatted a bit about other art events in the city and I relaxed a bit. Something I could actually talk about. My Dad, surprisingly, asked a lot of questions about what I thought and where else I might go this year. 

“You could go to Manila. We were thinking going at the end of summer or fall,” Pina says.

“Maybe.”

My Tagalog is terrible and I don’t know if being with my family for two weeks is a good idea. But by the way everyone brightens, that one word means more to them than it did to me. Perhaps they are on their best behaviour, too. 

“I’m so sorry. Like very sorry.”

I only picked up the phone call because I was on hour five of editing my last video and the sound of my own voice was irritating me. How much umming and ahhing was the line between sounding unscripted and irritating? Why had I talked so much about myself instead of the products? 

“It’s okay, Sophie. A bit awkward but it was fine.” I wasn’t upset about her and Zayn fighting. 

“I heard you and Harry hung out for a bit,” Sophie remarked offhandedly. She is talking in the breezy way she tends to when she’s very pleased. I doubt she would be as happy if she knew in which way we were being friendly. 

“Yeah we went for pho. He’s alright, I guess. What happened with Zayn?”

As if the word alright could capture being around Harry Styles.

“So the next day he calls Chris and takes him out to lunch. I have no idea what they talk about, but next thing I know when I’m back from work he’s got a dozen truffles, a silly apology note, a signed cheque and Chris’ contract waiting for my signature.” 

“Huh. That was fast.”

“Yeah, I’m dying to know what Chris told him, but he won’t say a word.”

I let her chatter Sophie’s told me they’ve settled a Toronto wedding, London mehndi and reception. I promise to help venue scout in two weeks without missing a beat. Me, Chris, Sophie, Zayn. Maybe Harry. Sounds like a party. I say goodbye once my attention starts wandering back to the video.

“Cassidy from Toronto. Today we’re going to talk about highlighter dos and absolutely do nots...”

X

It’s an uncommonly warm day when we go out venue scouting. A brisk wind but lots of sunshine after a gloomy couple weeks. In autumn, you’d just start to wear a jacket, but at the tail end of winter, it’s such a relief that I just wear a light cashmere sweater. 

“Cassidy, lovely as always, how are you?” Chris calls from the top of the front steps of the first venue. No one is with him, so we must both be early. We’re in front of an ochre brick heritage building that used to be the main building of an estate. 

“Chris! I’m wonderful. How are you? Congratulations on your new venture. I didn’t see you at the engagement party or I would have told you sooner.” Ever the gentleman, Chris descends the steps and after a double air kiss, offers his arm to help me up the stairs. 

“I was in New York. I’m sad to have missed it. Looks like it was fun.”

Sophie and Zayn arrive. No Harry. It figures. I had a weird impulse to check his instagram the other day and he seems to be in Los Angeles. In fact, as the venue’s event coordinator talks about capacity and decorations, I can’t imagine him doing this at all. Sophie likes this place but it’s small.

We drive to the next venue, a restaurant on the city waterfront. I snap a quick picture and Chris teases me, but it’s a beautiful clear day and the water is unusually still. This venue can hold hundreds, but mostly outside. There are tents but only a few fans and Chris frankly tells Zayn that it’ll only be nice if the weather cooperates. 

We go to a golf course and country club next. 

“I can’t imagine getting married here,” Sophie confesses. It’s a sprawling venue, with rolling green hills in the distance and a wraparound white veranda. It looks modern but in an unpleasantly expensive yet tacky way with all the chandeliers and crystal sconces and endless white. 

Zayn mumbles something that sounds like ‘toff’. Chris almost laughs then rescues it by pretending to cough into his blazer. The venue coordinator looks less than impressed. 

Chris offers me his my arm as I walk across yet another green field at the next venue, trying not to have my heels sink into the soft earth. I take it gratefully as this coordinator assures us they lay out a customizable boardwalk across the grass for outdoor weddings. As we make our way to the castle, I spot a male figure in jeans and a white t-shirt leaning by the front door. Curly hair gives it away. 

Harry says hello neutrally to everyone. Chris lets go of my arm gently as we reach the front hall and I’m suddenly a bit off balance. 

“Well, this is it,” the venue coordinator Kelly says. But there’s no need to tell us, as we all look in wonder at the rose beige marble and the grand curving staircase that feels like something out of a fairytale. Even the soft glow of the lighting on the walls makes it all feel otherworldly. 

“It’s stunning,” Sophie says. I could tell which venues she’s picked out because of a vintage romance aesthetic while all of Zayn’s picks have been modern and larger. Harry and I fall behind as we enter the ballroom.

“Didn’t expect you here, Styles,” I venture. Harry glances at me and once again, I’m struck by how intense the force of his singular attention is. He doesn’t answer me for a few moments but he looks at it. 

“Hope you like surprises, Mendez.” Our voices are barely above a whisper and Chris, Zayn, Kelly and Sophie are moving farther and farther away while Kelly explained the history of the building. 

“Are you going back to LA after this?” I ask. I am curious with what he does with his time when he’s not here, but it seems to be mostly bouncing between parties and bars. 

“Bored of it. Dunno. Why?” 

With a sudden surge of bravery over good sense, I take my phone out of my pocket, unlock it and offer it while holding my hand out for his. Harry slowly takes out his phone and unlocks it. His background is a picture of a dog--probably his--amongst a bunch of wrapping paper. I know better than to ask because even exchanging numbers feels intimate. 

“Don’t give out my number,” I warn. I doubt he will, but I also have had to change my number ten times in the last three years when someone posted it. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one to tell you that?” 

“No one wants your number, Liam Gallagher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is going okay, i think?


	9. ix: goodnight, goodnight

“If you say the words ‘try another dress’ again I’m going home,” Sophie declares. I may or may not have encouraged the stylist to leave us alone after fitting each dress because if there’s anything Sophie hates more than shopping it is attention. She is taking increasingly more panicked swigs from the complimentary champagne. 

“It requires just a bit of imagination. The dress will be altered and it won’t look like this.”

We’re in a tiny private room with armchairs upholstered in oxblood velvet, cherry hardwood and metal detailing in the wallpaper. Very late baroque and I was honestly surprised Sophie had opted to try here first. 

“They are clipping dresses that are too fucking small to my goddamn bra and they won’t zip!”

Downside to fancy bridal boutiques? Sample sizes.

The stylist Marie sweeps back into the room as if on cue and helps Sophie take off the dress. It had potential with a sweetheart neckline and a full ballgown. 

“I have one last dress you might like,” she says to Sophie, and I glance at my texts. 

From: Harry 10:15  
What are you doing day after tomorrow?

To: Harry 10:17  
I’ll be in New York. Why?

From: Harry 10:18  
Have a drink with me.

A surprisingly forward text considering I was the one to get his number, but turnabout is fair play. 

To: Harry 10:21  
In New York?

From: Harry 10:22  
In between whatever you’re doing in New York, Mendez.   
Isn’t this what one uses someone’s phone number for? To arrange to see them in person?

I can almost feel his annoyance and my tongue pokes out of my teeth with indecision. We’ve been like ships passing in the night for almost two weeks which is to say until this text, we were back to six months ago. 

To: Harry 10:27  
It’ll be too late for food.The Watering Hole near Union Square, 12 am.

When I look up, Sophie’s wearing another dress. It’s a very pale blush with a sweetheart neckline, embroidered and beaded corset bodice and a ballgown skirt. I put my hand to my throat unexpectedly because she’s really smiling and does a quick spin without being asked to. I know the designer actually, and I have to give Marie credit, because I thought we would leave the boutique without anything for the Toronto wedding. 

“Oh I love it. Zayn is going to be knocked off his feet.”

“You think?” She flips the veil over her face and smiles through it. I snap a picture of her. Barefaced and radiant. As much as this whole thing has been a hassle, she looks delighted. I can’t remember the last time that I felt the way she must.

X

He’s late. I’ve texted him that I was in the back booth fifteen minutes ago but now I’m fiddling with a straw. When he arrives, he’s practically soaked, with a thin white t-shirt nearly transparent and carrying a plastic bag with takeout containers.

“It’s never too late for laksa.”

“Styles, we’re in a bar. You can’t just set up takeout containers. Let`s go to my hotel.” He ignores me and flicks the containers open without hesitation. 

“You’ll find I can generally do whatever the fuck I want,” he says simply. And he’s right because the magic of his name and a credit card makes the bartenders not only allow us to eat but we get water served to the table with our drinks. Must be nice. A-Lister for life. 

“Did you come to New York for me?” I ask. 

“Yes, Mendez. You’re a pain in the arse but I think I’ll marry you, what do you say? Double wedding?” He says sarcastically. I roll my eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Boring blog stuff. Meeting some brands, did a quick ad campaign” I say. Pip’s not even in town so I sat in my hotel room last night and edited video and played solitaire. 

“Do you turn it off sometimes?” Inquisitive more than rude. He flicks a strand of his hair back and it’s getting a bit long for his haircut, but it looks nicer like this. Touchable and a bit more approachable. 

“Styles, this is my whole life.” I offer him a practiced smile. “I can give you detailed stats if you want.”

“No, thank you. You sounded like my agent for a second and I was expecting you to pull out a report with an excel sheet I can’t fucking understand.”

I imitate his accent. “Well, I’m quite good with excel, if you must know.” He looks at me for a second and then laughs. Hard. I do too after a moment. 

“Your accent is atrocious. Should be a crime. Stick to your Tim Hortons and hockey.” His Canadian accent is slightly better than my British one, which is a low bar to clear but it sets me off on another peal of laughter. I finished my one mojito and he finished his whiskey, but we make no moves to get another round of drinks.

“Seriously, what are you doing here?” I ask. I flick my eyes to my phone and it’s 3 am but I just want to finish this conversation. 

“Met Gala is tomorrow,” he said casually. I hesitate, because I would possibly, maybe... do something pretty awful to someone to go. I’m still too much of a blogger to score an invite and I can’t pay for an individual ticket and my agency won’t pay either. 

“I’m jealous,” I admit. “What are you wearing? Yves St Laurent again?” He scowls. Got it in one. Harry should fire his stylist, and I tell him as much. Too many fucking prints, too much of the haute couture houses, too little tailoring. Wouldn’t kill him to wear some more colour. At least mix it up with a Balmain jacket or something and it’s me of all people suggesting it. 

“Gala’s more boring than you’d think,” he says with a dismissive gesture.   
“What else do you do while you’re here?” 

“Been talking to lawyers, mostly.” 

“About what?” I decide not to probe further but I sense the conversation has shifts, as he starts spinning a ring around his thumb. He looks thoughtful before answering. 

“The record company has stuff of mine.” There had been a rumour two years ago after the band’s breakup that he was recording music but there had been some sort of dispute and I never heard it mentioned again. 

“They won’t give it back. We’ve been at this for fucking years at this point.”

“Sounds expensive,” I say neutrally. 

“Well if I’d paid for the lawyers in the first place I wouldn’t be in this mess,” he says bitterly. 

We’re really not close enough for me to offer any kind of comfort and I struggle. I want to help in some small way. I lean forward and lay a hand lightly on his knee. He looks at me in this poorly lit, loud bar in Gramercy Park and I look back at him. I want to tell him everything would be fine. The feeling that keeps my hand on his knee weighs me down so I don’t do something silly. 

“It’s late. I should go,” he says quietly. I was afraid he would have just pushed me away, but this feels like that.

“Yeah, it is late,” I agree. We pack up, he pays, and we leave the bar together. A car pulls up for him immediately, but he waits until I’m able to flag down a taxi.

“See you around.” Harry brushes my temple with his lips so softly I’m almost sure I’ve imagined it the second it is over. I’m sure it’s meant casually.


	10. x. graphs of passion

Harry Styles has been making new friends. Spotted in a popular Manhattan bar with internet darling Cassidy Mendez, the childhood friend of Zayn Malik’s girlfriend seems to be fitting right in the A-List 

\--

Velvet Magazine 

Firstly, we’re not even childhood friends, we met in university. 

Regardless, there are Canon telephoto lenses pointed at my window in Toronto, smartphones angled at my face, people who have probably never heard of me in their lives tweeting about where they saw me last. I stop walking everywhere and hire a car service when my Uber driver recognizes me. I avoid public places. I idly think about hiring security when learn of at least four “journalists” who tried to get past security in my building. 

My only quote is something my agent Ivan wrote and I hate. “I’m blessed to have so many true friends.” Sounds like a shitty hashtag married to a fucking graduation quote. 

As Sophie told me, the attention wanes as the months go by. I don’t try to see Harry again. It’s not him, it’s that I know that right now I look like a hanger on, a wannabe, someone who will use their best friend’s boyfriend for a couple likes. People say as much on the internet. It’s not true but it stings. This is not the first time it’s happened, but it feels worse this time. 

The day before my birthday Harry says, smirking to US Weekly, “She’s prettier than me at six in the morning, that’s for fucking sure.” Asshole. I text him that and he says he’ll see me soon. He hasn’t been back to Toronto in three months. I don’t know how I feel about it. 

“I feel like you don’t tell me anything any more. When were you going to tell me?” Sophie and I are looking at the final calligraphy proofs for her save the date at her house. No one’s home but the two of us. My face runs hot then cold. She clicks on the website’s cart without facing me. 

The best thing that I can come up with?

“I didn’t mean to get involved with Harry.”

“I meant that you will be hosting the launch party for Toronto Fashion Week,”Sophie says. Her eyes narrow. “Which Harry? Harry Cargill?”

I mumble out, “Harry Styles.” 

“Zayn said that you two had something going on. I said absolutely not.” 

I didn’t want her to look at me the way she is now, as if I’ve never made a good decision in my life and I can’t be trusted. Even if I’m having a fling, it sort of stings that my best friend thinks of me the way everyone else does. Cassidy Mendez, world class ditz, good-for-nothing, never does anything right. 

“Cassidy, I’m very glad you’re getting over Sam, but could you not make this wedding more of a mess by using him as your rebound? Do you like being in tabloids?” That hurts. My renewed capacity for feelings is not in my favour right now. 

“I promise it has nothing to do all of this.” I want to flick my hair back and smile as if I don’t know she’s angry with me. The corners of my mouth tremble almost imperceptibly but I can feel my control slipping. “But you’re acting like I deserve having my privacy invaded. Do you think I like this?”

“With Zayn and I it was different, it’s not like I---” She stops. We both know what she was going to say. 

“It’s not cool when it happens to you, but it’s fine when it happens to me because I’m not someone who hates attention. You’re pretty much saying you only felt sorry for me when you couldn’t make it my fault. Just call me a slut and call it a day.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” She says. But here’s the tension, I think she means it but she didn’t mean to say it to my face. 

“I’m going to leave now.” I announce. 

My heart is hammering in my chest and part of me wishes I just kept that to myself, but instead I pick up my purse and leave. 

X

The day after my 25th birthday is awful. I lie in bed for most of the day. It had been over the top, even for me. I hadn’t been drinking because basically my own birthday is a PR event for models and bloggers. Just a lot of smiling, posing for picture and editing until four am so all my content looks like everyone had a great time. My family had dinner with me last week. Everyone else had a brief lunch with me the day before, with me talking to Sophie as little as possible. There’s nothing that’s so great about being twenty five so far. 

At about six pm I drag myself away from Netflix and into the shower when Harry texts to ask if he can come over. He’s probably at the airport I reason, which would give me some time to tidy and not look like I’ve been lying in bed if he stops by his apartment first. 

In twenty minutes, Harry’s at my door wearing the only Gucci jacket from next season that I absolutely hate and black jeans. He’s wheeling his luggage behind him and a guitar case is strapped to his back. He looks good. 

I want to tell him so instead I say, “how’d you get here so fast?”

He doesn’t answer. “Happy belated birthday.” 

He pauses to drop his luggage on my couch. I remember I am standing in front of him wearing nothing but a fluffy beige towel and primer. He doesn’t look at me any differently, very politely declines to look anywhere but my face. I certainly feel naked but mostly because I am naked and I’ve had a rough week and my best friend and I are mad at each other because of this guy who is standing in my living room after disappearing for three whole months. 

I want to ask him where he’s been specifically. Not just Morocco with Niall or Los Angeles in a music studio. But where he’s been driving to when he called once or twice on speaker and what he’s been listening to. Whether he’s been sleeping well since he texts me silly things in the middle of the night. 

“Zayn is very upset with me right now.” I make a non committal sound. “I don’t really care though,” he continues. 

He kisses me. I hold onto the edge of my towel with an iron grip. It’s almost polite, hands at our sides, gently leaning in. This is nice though, like he’s trying to pretend we’re both normal and respectable and courting each other. But I mostly find the chase boring. I’m all about instant self gratification. I drop my towel.

I’ve never really understood about heart, mind and body wanting different things. I’m looking for a bit of release but as Harry skims fingers downward he hesitates noticing my lack of response. 

“D’you want this?” Harry asks, voice uncharacteristically uneven and slow. His hand rests on my lower stomach but doesn’t move. He keeps the other gently drawing circles in the back of my neck. Makes me a bit sleepy but I relax a little. 

“Yeah...sorry, just a bit stressed out. Nothing to do with you.” Not strictly true, but I don’t blame him for it anyway. 

“But you’re good?” He asks again. I don’t want him to be nice to me, I want him to fuck me but apparently the two would go hand in hand this session. 

“I am. Promise.” He kisses me gently before he continues what he started earlier. This time his touch is so light, I feel a brush of calluses before his hands move on. I didn’t know how much the last two times he had surprised me until he was telegraphing every move before he did it as if to make sure I didn’t startle. 

He lays me on the bed and kneels between my legs. I tug on a jacket sleeve trying to get him to undress. Harry ignores me and braces the inside of his elbows under the back of my knees. The first touch of his mouth to my centre makes me gasp. Intimate and in my life, sadly rare. Sometimes as a bit of foreplay but not usually like this. 

I gasp and plead and swear and shout through two orgasms and Harry would have gone for a third if I didn’t haul him up for messy but intoxicating kiss. I reach for his belt and he stops me. There’s a damp spot in his jeans and I wonder if...

“I’m okay for now.” He sounds a little embarrassed, but I would also bet he didn’t mean to come in his pants like a teenager. I think it’s a bit sweet but it’s possibly the haze of bliss right now. I kiss him on the cheek. 

“Give me a minute.” He picks up his suitcase with him and come back showered and in a pair of ratty sweatpants I’ve never seen and a different white shirt but this one is full of holes.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind if I stayed.” Casual but hopeful that I won’t kick him out for dinner. I probably would’ve six months ago but I didn’t want to. I order takeout and put on a silly fantasy show and about four hours in he starts drifting off.

“Do you need to be anywhere tomorrow? I need to be up a bit early but I can leave you a key if you want to hang out. Or go home later. You can also come. Whatever.” I’m stammering and curled up on my side. 

“Tell you what, I’ll just do whatever you’re doing tomorrow.” It’s more effective than a shushing, his arm around me speaking low directly into my ear. I nod and he nuzzles my neck a little before falling asleep.


	11. xi: portrait of a lady

Picking up the Mendez-Ocampo family from the airport is its own brand of chaos. Harry wasn’t happy to be up at six am, or picking up the rental car, but he doesn’t say anything until we get on the 401.

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know.” He doesn’t answer though I’m certain he heard me. 

“It’s too early for house music.” He switches the knob off on the dashboard. I pick a different playlist and turn it back on and he picks up my phone. “Are my choices house music or mid 2000s hiphop? Do you have anything with instruments?”

“How do you feel about McFly?” I venture coyly. As predicted, Harry rolls his eyes and settles on the Fratellis. Surprisingly he does not at all react to the fact we get stuck in standstill traffic.

“It still freaks me out that you drive on the wrong side,” he says idly but for the most part it is silent car ride.

I didn’t warn them about Harry and in retrospect, returning to the car with Mom, Dad, brother, his wife and the twins with a relative stranger out front is weirder than I thought. Harry is leaning against the car and texting, all grace and a faint smile. My mom has a furrow in her brow and stares. I'm embarrassed but it's my father who breaks the silence. 

"Are you Cassie's friend?" Harry looks up and nods wearily. 

"Mark." He holds his hand out to shake and is putting on his best Canadian accent that softens almost all the Tagalog until it's indistinct, untraceable.

"Nice to meet you." 

"Thanks for coming. Maybe next time you can convince her to go on vacation, " my dad adds. 

This snaps me out of my reverie "Dad!" 

He ignores me and gestures to my brother to start stacking the suitcases in the car. I paid for a moment to take in Harry between my father and brother, out of place. 

"It's too heavy to go on top, let's put this one on the side," Harry says, stepping in. It's a joke or a bizarre math problem really: an engineer, a surgeon and a pop star are trying fit everything into the truck of a Town and Country. We wave off my brother and his wife who have opted to take a taxi rather than squeeze in.

I expect the ride home to be quiet as well, but between the twins, Harry and my dad they ask him questions about everything.

“Are you a model like Cassidy?” My mom asks almost suspiciously. 

“Not handsome enough to make it full time.” And I think I catch a wink from him and to my horror, feel myself flush a little. I decide to keep my eyes on the road. 

“What do you do?” My father asks.

“Mostly I write songs for other people, now.” He surprises me with that. And he obliges us all by playing last year’s summer pop song. Even the twins who aren’t allowed much television or internet know the chorus.

They ask him about his family and siblings. Is he Italian? (No.) Greek? (No.) Spanish? (Just English as far as he knows.) Where did he grow up? (Holmes Chapel.) Can he drive manual, the superior option for all cars? (He doesn’t drive in North America but prefers automatic.) Does he like Filipino food? (He thinks so.) Will he come to dinner? 

Harry looks at me for the last one and I nod. He doesn’t actually have to come. 

“Sounds great.”

After dropping them off, I toss Harry a granola bar, take a long swig of water and we head to the park. It’s mostly empty at ten on a weekday but I think Harry hoped we’d go right home. 

“Your family seems really great,” He remarks. I don’t answer but I take pity on him. 

“I’ve got to run today, but you can stay here if you want,” I say as I stretch my hamstrings. He stretches alongside me in a languid way. I can’t really tell from looking at him whether or not he exercises but he did have gym clothes when I asked this morning. 

But he’s stubborn.

“I’ll do whatever you’re doing.” I tie up my hair and attach my car keys to my wrist and drop my water bottle next to a tree. 

“Let’s go then.” I sprint across the park without waiting. He stumbles and then follows with admirable grace. He almost keeps up with me for a few long minutes. He’s not as fast but his longer strides keep us almost even. Then I turn left and start running up the incline that’s used for sledding in the winter. He doesn’t stop but he slows down to make up for the slope. I bounce on my heels at the top and then run along the ridge before zigzagging back down. 

“You okay?” I’m showing off and I can feel the sweat drenching my back but when he takes a few seconds before giving me a thumbs up, I feel satisfied. 

We repeat the run three times, before I lie down on the grass exhausted. Harry’s face is flushed and he’s sweat through his white shirt so it’s almost transparent. I don’t even pretend not to be admiring him for trying. It’s too hot for him to be lying so near me while my heart is thundering in my ears. Ridiculous that the sweat makes tiny ringlets appear along his hairline while my hair has frizzed out of control. He reaches out and tucks an escaping tendril back behind my ear. 

“Do you do this every day?”

“Not every day. I aim for five days a week, but I usually only get outdoors for one.”

“Lucky me,” he grumbles. 

Harry pulls out his phone and overhead snaps a few pictures of us both lying side by side. He takes one as I wrinkle my nose and smile, an expression I don’t ever photograph because it reminds me of the things I don’t like about my face. But I let him. 

“You also usually do this part right?” he says as he opens Instagram. With minimal snark, I walk him through a quick edit and he tags me. No hashtags needed when you’re Harry Styles. I worry for a second of being seen like that partially because I look strange. I almost never take casual photos anymore and it looks more like me than it looks like Cassidy the Brand. But he’s trying to understand I think, and there’s nothing that would prove all his assumptions like telling him I can’t be seen like that. After all, he sees me like that. 

“One more photo?” He asks when walk back to the car. And this one catches me off-guard because he kisses me instead.

 

X 

For the first time in almost six years of work, I’m almost late for a shoot because Harry pretends as if we might save time if we shower together. On set, I hand him my phone and he lounges on a couch, ignoring staff who are all but openly gawking at him. He actually doesn’t seem to look at anyone but me no matter what is going on. We’ve spent a record breaking almost twenty four hours together without arguing. It’s just...easy to be with him for long stretches of time. He does his own thing, doesn’t interrupt when I’m writing or sketching, doesn’t fill silence and only ask questions when it’s clear I’m free.

“I’ve got a quick event to go to tonight at SoHo House for an opening but you don’t have to go,” I tell him. My neck aches and I need to write new video scripts, but I promised to be at this pre Fashion Week event as a favour to a brand I’ve worked with in the past. They are starting their Spring campaign soon and even forty minutes will work in my favour. 

“Aren’t you tired?” He asks. I smile. He doesn’t smile back. 

“Of course, I’m tired,” I sigh. “But I’m lucky enough to work now and I can’t work like this forever. I get paid not very well for most of my work and the stuff that makes me money like ads or marketing means that I have to have ordinary content up as well or else my feed is a Dior and Sephora ad. I get paid in free stuff as often as I get paid actual money. I’m not going to look like this forever. ” I gesture broadly from my Margiela sequined dress to my face “I know how to do this and well. But here’s the secret Styles, I don’t work, I don’t get to eat or pay off my student loans. I’ve been there before and I’m never doing it again. ”

He’s a bit surprised, but everyone who is not directly involved is always surprised that this industry lets you wear two thousand dollar dresses on loan when you couldn’t scrape that together with your outstanding unpaid invoices. 

“Do you like running around like this Mendez?” Harry asks. His finger is over his mouth and he’s thinking. I can see the gears turning.

“It’s not a matter of what I like. I really wish it was.” He drops the subject. 

Harry accompanies me at the party, with his hand on the small of my back. I smile at Clodagh across the room when I spot her and introduce Harry. She’s so delighted I’m sure she was a fan back in the day, but she tactfully doesn’t mention it at all. We have the short conversation we need to for her to hopefully remember me for Paris while my head starts to pound. I try not to scowl. We get back to my apartment at 11 pm, and after everything my phone rings and it’s Sophie. I turn my phone over and close my eyes briefly. I’m overwhelmed, hungry, exhausted and dehydrated. 

I’m in control, I tell myself. I kick off my heels. I drink a glass of water. I eat an apple and a banana first then allow myself a painkiller. Harry’s loosened his tie and he’s also drinking a glass of water with me in the kitchen. 

I start talking before I realize it. 

“The reason I’m so upset with her is because Sophie is supposed to know me better than anyone. I’ve never been less than supportive whether she packed up her bags and fucked off to England with two weeks notice or came back a wreck. I am there for her no matter what she does. It’s like...it’s like...” my voice wavers then dies. I can’t believe this where and when I’ve chosen to finally talk to someone about this. 

Harry does the most unexpected thing. 

“Go on,” he says. He sits on the kitchen floor. I sit down with him.


	12. xii: end of a spark

“How’s Harry?” Sophie asks. I’ve known her so long I can tell she’s trying to talk around the issue. 

I shrug nonchalantly then pour myself a jasmine green tea. Harry’s coming and going as he pleases at this point. He’s in LA right now and he’s also started leaving some of his stuff behind: a white t-shirt quietly folded and tucked in a basket under my bed, weetabix in my pantry, a book on my desk. 

I’m having an awkward afternoon high tea with Sophie. I think she’s trying to call a truce, with a peace offering of good scones. But it’s not working well, and the more we sit here, the more I annoyed I am she just won’t say sorry. 

“I just wanted to say, I overreacted. You and Harry know what you’re doing and it was wrong of me to say something.”

Almost a sorry. Almost.

“It has nothing to do with Harry. It has to do with you thinking that you get to make decisions for me without consulting me because you know better. I know you came about this lifestyle for lack of a better word, a different way, but I know how to handle my business.”

“The way you handle your business affects me,” Sophie ventures. I cut her off with a hand gesture.

“I always think of you first when it’s about you. I don’t ever talk about you no matter how many times I’m approached, I haven’t given someone so much as your favourite colour and it seems like you’re always waiting for me to betray you.”

“I don’t think you’ll betray me.” Sophie says in a rush. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. It stings because we’ve both been put in that position by people before. I try not to think of Sam’s photobook of me but it's hard not to in this context. 

“You made it seem like if I don’t care about you and I don’t care about myself so long as someone will give me the slightest bit of attention. Sounds awful, why are we even friends?” I manage. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m the one that sounds terrible. Am I that terrible?” Sophie laughs but it has the tinge of hysteria.

“If you were, I’d fucking cut you off.” I say deadpan. I say it with less of a bite than I might’ve . “But I don’t someone to look after me. I can look after myself. I need a good friend.” I continue. 

“I could be a good friend. If I tried.” Sophie amended quickly. I tap her foot with mine under the table, and she reciprocates. We both smile at each other.

We catch up a little awkwardly but it’s the first time we’ve argued for more than a week since we’ve known each other. Awkward is fine. I can live with it. 

X

The thing that’s awful about living alone, is when you get sick, no one is around to help. Just before the holidays, it starts with a headache and sore throat. I cancel my appointments through Ivan. Then cramps, a fever and coughing my lungs out for a whole day before realizing I’m out of painkillers and Sophie and Liora are out of the country. I can’t risk getting Mark or Pina sick as they would have to cancel their surgeries. My parents are out of the question, I don’t have the energy for lectures or badgering. 

I dial Harry’s number. I’m sprawled in bed, half asleep and I close my eyes. 

When I wake up again, it’s dark out and someone is unlocking my door. I recognize Harry’s voice and someone else, but the door slams. Maybe it’s another fever dream. 

“Good Lord, you look like hell, Mendez.” Harry says. Now I’m sure he’s not an apparition, I try to sit up. My mouth tastes awful, I have a crick in my neck and I’ve sweat through the shirt I was wearing. Was it a day ago or two I went to bed? I’m not sure. 

“How did you get in here?” I croak. 

“Landlord. You called me then didn’t pick up,” he points out. He seems a bit agitated. Wrinkled white shirt, grey joggers and his hair is more messy than tousled. Whatever he had been doing, he dropped it to come here. I pick up my phone. I had definitely fallen asleep after he picked up. Then he had called me back for two hours on Monday night. 29 missed calls. It looks like he must have enlisted Sophie and Zayn too and it’s now Tuesday afternoon. 

“Have you eaten? Are you taking any medicine or seen a doctor?” I shook my head. He put the back of his hand to my forehead. It’s so lovely and cool on my burning temple than I lean into his touch just a little. 

“That’s no good.” He mutters. “Just...don’t go anywhere.” I try to think of something sarcastic to say back but I drift off again. Then he’s shaking me awake gently. “Do you want to try to shower before the doctor gets here?”

Judging by the fact I haven’t showered in three days, I should be more self conscious. I smell like a downtown alleyway though I’m too congested to know for certain. But I don’t have the energy to care much. While I know from my mom’s stories the doctor has probably seen worse, it seems like it might be polite. I stagger to the washroom with Harry holding me up. Although he’s seen me naked, I order him out. Moments later, Harry pounds on the door. 

“Cassidy, don’t sleep in there. Let me in if you need help” Harry doesn’t sound like he’s joking so I muster enough energy to scrub off the worst of the sweat off. I feel a little bit better, and I’m confident I can at least stagger under my own power. 

He’s wasted no time during my shower either, having combed through my drawers to retrieve my high school sweatpants and soccer trip t-shirt. The bed has fresh linens and I can hear the faint chug of the washing machine. I walk out to the living room and he is chopping vegetables. Somehow it fits, Harry Styles in my kitchen, using one of my rarely used knives with ease. 

“Your refrigerator is a disgrace,” he says. I shrug. 

“I make salads or eat take out most of the time.” I explain.

The doctor turns out to be a kindly older woman who examines me thoroughly even though I can feel Harry watching over the counter. 

“It’s just the flu and your period. Bad timing. Plenty of liquids, some painkillers and rest. Take the rest of the week off.”

I expect Harry to leave with the doctor, but he keeps cooking while I putter around figuring out what I can make up for work and what I’ll just have to cancel. He sets a bowl with chicken noodle soup, lime and chili sauce and some bread in front of me in the living room. He made it the soup and bread from scratch. 

“Eat some, so you can take paracetamol,” he says gruffly. He sits with his own bowl on the couch beside me.

“You’ll get sick.” I try to rise and he puts his hand firmly on my thigh.

“Sit down, I’ve been here for two hours. Too late to fret.” I sit back down. I taste the chicken noodle and it’s good. Better than the fancy Campbell’s I treat myself to when I’m sick and can actually move. 

“This is amazing, thank you.” He raises an eyebrow at me. It's true I'm not normally this effusive. 

“Sweetheart," and it sounds somewhat like an endearment and he only smirks a little "it's just soup.”

"But you also baked!" Now he goes faintly pink at the tips of his nose and ears. 

"It's a dinner roll. They didn't even get a proper rise and it’s a self rising flour instead of a yeast--" 

They are uneven, but pillowy soft with some oats baked into the crust. God, I love carbs. I may or may not have let out a moan. Now he’s stopped looking at me. He crosses his legs and looks at his bowl of soup. 

"Fuck Jamie Oliver, you should open a restaurant. I'd go for every meal for the rest of my life."

He tsk-tsks quietly, but I see the beginnings of a smile.


	13. xiii: carry me home

Sophie mentions last minute that I’m the only bridesmaid and Harry the only groomsmen. I think they must have too many friends between them to want to decide. This relieves me, because I’m free to pick whatever I want so long as it’s not red. 

“They want me to host some Filipino-Canadian thing next week,” I tell my mom through the screen of the bridal shop dressing room. Last minute Sophie had cancelled on me and Mom was the only other person who I trusted to tell me if the dress was nice. 

“The festival! You remember Tita Clarissa? It’s her daughter-in-law who runs it. Her name is something with an ‘f’ and I hear that they have two dogs and no kids---” Mom interrupts herself as I exit to hiss. “No no no, that dress is ugly.”

I agree about the dress but I have to pick something modest for the mehndi and London reception. I change into another champagne coloured dress that’s more structured but still high necked. 

“It’s Fiona Carandang. She seems really nice. They know I don’t speak Tagalog.” I come back out and my mother gasps. 

“Beautiful. Beautiful.” She murmurs, standing up to straighten my skirt. “I wish we had taught you.”

I had never really questioned not learning to speak Tagalog. I assumed it was natural. I understood it well enough to eavesdrop and I understood the basics. Isa, dalawa, tatlo. Where is the remote? Go to your room. Mark understood more because he came to Canada when he was eight. I did not. 

“Why didn’t you?” I said, disappearing to wear another gown. 

“Your brother had such a hard time assimilating. His teachers told us, no more Tagalog in the house, only English tv and movies. By the time we knew it was wrong, it was too late.” She shrugs. With it, I think of more little things she might have wanted when she came to Canada. A different job maybe. 

“I don’t have to say much anyway,” I say. “Mabuhay, enjoy the festival. I can do that without embarrassing myself.”

“Ay, I’m so proud of you.” Then without a pause, “Ugly, ugly dress. No yellow unless you do your tanning thing.”

X

In retrospect, just because the boutique was a short walk to Harry’s did not mean I should just show up. But I reason, he was always in and out of my place, and if he didn’t want me to come, he wouldn’t have put me on the list of approved guests.

I knock on the door, suddenly nervous. Maybe he’s busy. Or tired. I hear his laugh and another female voice through the door and my body goes hot and tingly. 

“Mendez?” He looks a bit puzzled and his hair is messier than usual and he is wearing this giant fluffy white bathrobe with boxers and nothing else. 

“Sorry, I should have texted first.” I babble. “Don’t mean to interrupt.”

“I just have a friend over, it’s not a big deal. You can come in. I actually wanted you to meet Tansy.”

Right, a friend. I don’t believe him but it’s not as if I can run back to the elevator. 

“Give me a minute,” He pecks me on the cheek in the front hall and goes to his bedroom. I feel disoriented and I have no idea what I’m walking into. 

“Hi. Tansy?” I venture. There are several tattered looking notebooks on the couches and his friend is sitting on the carpet next to a keyboard and acoustic guitar, frowning. She is objectively very pretty if only slightly older than Harry and I; delicate features, pouty mouth, blonde hair in a bun. Tansy looks familiar as well. She’s also chewing the hell out of the pen in her mouth. 

“Oh my God, hi!” She stands up very quickly and she towers over me. “You’re Cassidy. I have been dying to meet you.” Her accent is very German. I am looking for evidence that Harry and her had been up to something, but she is fully dressed in ill-fitting jeans and a Joy Division t-shirt. Barefoot. I feel guilty for assessing her outfit but it’s almost automatic. It’s not like her jeans have to fit well for her and Harry to...

“Looks like you’re busy.” I murmur.

“I am writing a new album but I’m not used to writing without---by myself yet.” Then it clicks. Tansy Weber. One half of a former europop duo with her ex-husband. Public divorce and breakup a year ago. He’s released a new album with his new eighteen year old girlfriend. She had...disappeared. I wasn’t a fan of their music but I remember the paparazzi following her around London. 

She gave me a knowing wink. She knows I remember. Everyone remembered. 

“Harry is good at listening, telling me when my songs are bad, and makes sure my album isn’t just ‘fuck you’ over and over again.” She laughs and I join her. The tension goes out of my shoulders. She’s cool. 

Besides, I would have nothing to be angry about. I’ve got no claim on Harry. We’ve never talked about being exclusive. I’m being ridiculous. 

“He talks about you a lot you know.” She says. I honestly still think when he’s not looking at me or talking to me, he forgets that I exist. Hookup impermanence. A brief tingle of pleasure runs through me. So he does think of me. 

Before I can ask more, Harry enters, full dressed in a tt-shirt and jeans. 

“Tansy, do you want to play the last song again?”

She nods and sits back down on Harry’s grey carpet in front of the keyboard.  
“If I agree to miss you one last time, will you pretend you won’t leave me behind, this time...”

I think she’s just merely pretty until she sings. Then she transforms. She is beautiful when she is belting a high note, when her fingers trip and she restarts a verse, when she dissolves into giggles when she forgets her own lyrics. 

Harry strums along on the acoustic guitar, makes suggestions, smiles when she gets it right and laughs at her jokes. They work well together, and it’s been a handful of times I’ve seen him that carefree. 

“Okay, time for me to go home.” Tansy packs up all her notebooks and gives Harry a big hug, but it seems friendly. Inwardly, I cringe at myself. Now I’m assessing hugs for fuck’s sake. 

“Nice to meet you Tansy,” I went for a handshake but she waves it off and gives me a hug instead. 

“Stay safe kids.” She beams and Harry closes the door. 

“She seems cool.” I manage. All the sudden, I’m mumbling. He looks at me directly, and I look away as if the eye contact burns. He walks over to where I’m sitting on his also grey couch, with my feet tucked under me and sits next to me. 

“Of course. Wouldn’t work with her otherwise.” He kisses me once gently and I stiffen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing Styles,” I lie. I am looking at my fingernails as if they are fascinating. I’ve never been this shy person. He studies me, eyes narrowing in thought.

“Are you jealous?” I deliver a scoff worthy of an Oscar. I brace myself for him to make fun of me. For him to suggest that if I was catching feelings this needed to end. I’m under no delusions about what we are but at the same time, there’s something in me that doesn’t like to share. That would rather remain ignorant if I’m one of many options to warm his bed.

“Because I’ve never slept with Tansy, she’s my friend.” My snort of disbelief is real this time. 

“I don’t lie about things like that.” He’s adamant. “Fuck, I’m not some sort of...look, I would never sleep with someone else without asking if we hadn’t discussed it first. I’m not completely devoid of fucking morals.”

I want to believe him. 

“So the bathrobe and boxers were what exactly?”

“A certain someone rang the doorbell before I could finish my shower and Tansy doesn’t answer the door anymore.” I am tempted to pry as to what exactly is her deal, but that’s more nosiness than the matter at hand. “And I hadn’t showered all day and was going to ask you to dinner with Tansy.” 

He opens his draft texts and hands me his phone. There are at least a dozen. I scroll through: ‘Hey Cassidy, are you busy’ ‘Do you want to meet my friend at’ ‘Tansy Weber wants to have dinner with you’ ‘I want to see you tonight.’ My face heats.

“Sorry for questioning you.” I say. I peck him briefly. My heart flutters a little. 

“I know why. But since we started, you’re it, alright?”


	14. xiv: fast asleep daydreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sexual harassment

My arm is fucking killing me. I’ve had it above my head for the better part of twenty minutes, in a half squat, one leg cocked, the other displaying a shoe that is extremely pinchy. I mean, sure, Gianvito Rossi didn’t intend for me to wear these on top of a dock in Greenwich. I am certain as well, that I will never shoot for this magazine ever again. 

“A bit more cheerful love, ‘s not that cold,” says my photographer Ralph Northam. 

He’s of course, wearing black jeans, a turtleneck and a leather jacket. I am wearing a strapless dress with a silk scarf tied at my neck and a hat. London in February is not that warm and even less so where I can feel the spray from the Thames on my face. I was supposed to wear a skirt suit with hose, but instead Ralph leered at my legs and told me there was a change of plans. There was no heat lamp or trailer, which I was promised. I’ll let Ivan take it up, I decide. 

I’ve never gotten a great vibe from him and the go-see was a bit weird., It’s only me, him, an assistant and makeup artist/stylist. They both have a very similar look--petite, blonde, leggy. I wonder if that’s why he hired them. I shiver involuntarily. 

I am being paid, I recite to myself. Money is important. This is an important client. Five minutes pass.

“I need water.” When the assistant tries to come forward, he holds a hand up to stop her and keeps shooting. A few years ago, I ignored my body and ended up sprawled on the floor after my knees had locked. 

I try again, using a demure voice that I hope works. 

“I’m sorry but I need to rest.” He ignores me. He tells me that I’m very pretty, tells me to pout, tells me the way I bite my lip looks obscene. I’m trying to ignore the burn in my calf for just a minute longer. 

“Maybe I should put you on your back. You seem like you’d be a good fuck,” he murmurs. At first, I’m not sure I hear him. Then I spot the look on his assistant’s face: not like she’s never heard him say such a thing, but that she thought this treatment was reserved for someone else. Who is someone else, I wonder? Is it underpaid models grateful to be in Vogue Italia? A long line of hopeful teenagers who think it might be their big break? Assistants, like herself? 

“This shoot is over.” I announce. I kick off the shoes on the spot, walk barefoot down the dock towards him, shedding the scarf and hat. 

“We’re not done,” he snaps.

“Oh, I think we’re done here,” I snap right back. I’ve done difficult shoots before. I studied ballet. I exercise a lot. I played varsity level soccer. Pain is not a stranger, but this kind of unnecessary pain is my limit. It’s already shooting up my left ankle to my calf and I concentrate on not limping. I know if he knows I’m hurt, it’ll only be worse somehow.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He continues, as I walk to the makeshift tent and grab my clothes. “You’re just some jumped up internet whore.”

I don’t answer. With the camera is out of his hand, he seems smaller. Manageable. A nuisance. My heart is pounding. I’m still half afraid he might strike me, or grab me or that this is the end of my career in high fashion. I can sense the threats, hanging heavy in the space between us. It’s not the worst treatment I’ve gotten on set, but until now, it’s been much better for the last few years. But I can’t work like this. 

I turn my back on him. I don my hoodie with shaking hands, certain if he speaks another word I am really going to ruin my career by punching him in the throat.

I arrive at Zayn’s London place without being able to really register what’s going on. I exit the car and go around to the back entrance where Zayn is smoking a cigarette while propping open the door. 

“I thought you quit smoking,” I say as a greeting,

“No, I said I would cut down and don't smoke around Sophie. If those two things means she believes I don't smoke, I'm not responsible.”

I roll my eyes. I exhausted my ability to tell him off and Sophie knows, only he doesn’t know she does. I’ve only smoked a handful of times but when he offers I take a tiny dainty puff from his cigarette and then crush it under foot instead of handing it back. We both laugh and he passes me a piece of gum. 

“Bad day?” He asks. I shrug as we climb the stairs, though he can’t see me. 

Harry, Chris and Cassidy are upstairs, talking about travelling in Seoul. He smiles at me, nervously as if he’s unsure whether I want to greet him. I kiss him warmly on the cheek. It feels right. 

We sit down and start talking about the reception in London, with Zayn channelling all the concerns from his family and a few quick speakerphone calls with his mom. All the while, Harry sits next to me on the couch, leg pressed against mine. On occasion he gestures with his left hand and rests it on my knee. Chris eventually leaves and we’re just trying to decide what to do next when he turns to me.

“What’s going on with you?” He asks. I am about to take a deep breath and come up with something plausible when Sophie chimes in “Yeah, are you okay?” 

I tell them about the photo shoot. I’m worried they are going to want me to do or say something. He draws slow circles on my inner wrist with his thumb.

“What do you want to do?” He asks.

“I don’t really want to....I just hate that this happens and not everyone can walk away.” Tears are brimming and I blink hard. “I only did the shoot because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t just slacking off and wasting money coming here.”

“You know, you work incredibly hard right? You’re allowed a vacation.” Sophie says. I shake my head no, and my nose is running now. I swipe without a care for the makeup that’s probably coating my sleeve now. 

“You do, you know.” Harry cups my face gently in his hands briefly before letting go. Zayn is watching us intently. I don’t think they’ve really settled their rift but it’s seems like he isn’t going to make a big deal of it now. I’m crying as much because I’m upset as that I’m utterly humiliated. 

Sophie is pacing. "Ralph right?" I nodded. "If you want I could mention it to some people." 

We looked at each other evenly. I knew what she was asking. Sophie is my best friend but she’s also Director of International Events, Sparkle Events. Event planning boutique firm of William & William, the prestige public relations firm for the arts. Ivan could do a lot, but I'd run into Ralph again. I'd be sick if I did. “All of you can mention it to people, just...leave my name out of it.”

"Sure." Zayn nodded too, and flipped through his phone. 

Harry gets up and walks off to a side room but I can hear him clearly "Charlie. Mate, it's Harry. Oh, everything's good. Just got a problem. Do you know Ralph Northam? " He made some listening noises. "Look, I've got a friend who worked with him and between me and you, he said some disgusting shit. I'm not going to your awards show if this is the kind of person you're going to keep around. It's only fair I tell you, yeah? Because it's not the first time I’ve called you about one of these scumbags." 

I got up and washed my face in the sink. My face is a splotchy mess, there’s Iipstick on my teeth and I just realized I’d worn my shirt inside out. But I feel for the first time today, very safe. Three people who give a damn about me are near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the end is in sight. sorry for the wait x


	15. xv: i know the feeling

Over my protests yesterday, Harry had called a car, bundled me in a blanket stolen from Zayn and Sophie’s house and taken me to his London condo. It’s the opposite of what I expect. It’s cozy with photos of his family, little knick knacks from touring and entire walls of hanging guitars. He insists on sleeping in the spare bedroom. 

I want to thank him, but saying thank you is out of the question. 

I can cook a few things and once I realize he has a waffle iron and a fully stocked fridge, I set to work making buttermilk waffles. He also has a bluetooth speaker and I turn down the music but sing along heartily while mixing flour and eggs. I don’t hear Harry until he’s right behind me. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you can’t sing?” Harry tells me. I toss my hair huffily.

“I have a beautiful voice.” I know I can’t sing...theoretically. I can’t really hear the difference unless someone else is singing. 

“I thought you turned on the juicer the wrong way. I wake up on a beautiful Sunday morning and instead of seeing a gorgeous girl in my bed, there’s inhuman screeching coming from my kitchen.” 

The way he says gorgeous with a fluttery cheek kiss makes me melt a little. 

“You love my Adele covers. You get your own private concert, Styles. Aren’t you lucky?”I tap him on the chest and he’s boxed me in against the kitchen island. He swoops down suddenly to kiss the other cheek. 

“I do dream about you in my kitchen. But you’re not usually wearing much.” He kisses my neck and untied the front of my shorts. He holds the laces in his hands, the only thing stopping them from falling to my feet. “Something to start off the day?”

I smack his hands. 

“Waffles first.” He ties the drawstrings neatly in a bow as if that's what he intended all along. 

“What are you going to do all day?”

I shrug. I cancelled a shoot back in Toronto tomorrow and cancelled my ticket home. I don’t want to be alone until someone can come back with me. I even left a brief message that I would be taking a hiatus from instagram and youtube. The rumour is that I’m either pregnant, terminally ill or recovering from a breakup. Truth is, I don’t feel like pretending. 

“I don’t know. What are you doing?”

He plays with a slightly too long lock of his own hair. He seems a bit nervous. I turn and start stacking the waffles on his plates. Chipped mustard trim vintage looking plates that look like they could have come from a charity shop. They suit him better than weird artsy black matte plates he keeps in the Yorkville condo. 

“Well, I was going to go try to record with Niall and some friends.”

“That’s good isn’t it? It’s been a while?” We still don’t talk a lot of shop but if I’m right this means he might make music again for himself. My opinion hardly matters but he seems happier writing music than whatever he filled his days with before. 

He nods. “There’s a party later tonight that you can come to.” I’m glad he doesn’t actually need my company until later. I’m still anxious and overtired. He takes a piece of of the first batch of waffles. “I can’t believe you can actually cook,” Harry remarks.

I shrug.

“We all have our flaws. For example, you keep Vermont maple syrup instead of Quebec.” 

Actually I don’t really have many people to cook for any more. We eat in silence before he’s off. 

X

I’ve been to a dozen parties like this before. Oyster bar, charcuterie trays and gold leaf gilded desserts no one will touch. I do, mostly because someone paid for truffle fries so it’s rude of me not to. Free flowing champagne, drugs if you know who to ask and a complete lack of smartphones. I didn’t think they built Miami beachhouses in this climate and the heating bill must be astronomical to keep this as balmy as it is. 

“Cassidy. Nice to meet you.” I must have said a dozen times. 

I could have made my own way, but Harry tucked me at his side. Even when I was sure he was absorbed in conversation, he would reach out and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear or run his thumb in a small circle on my back. I had tried many times to reconcile the Harry I knew--reserved, a little abrasive and a bit removed--with the tabloid Harry. But here he was, making little jokes in his dry manner and listening as if he had nothing better to do while we held court in a couple chaise longues in the corner of the yard. I’m still jittery but a bit clearer headed.

“Cassidy.” I whip around to confirm it is in fact Sam. His baritone voice is always pitched a little low so you find yourself leaning in to hear better. Although we text on occasion and leave comments on each other’s photos, I haven’t actually seen him for two or three years now. Tall, lanky and dark haired, and brown eyed. Still handsome but he doesn’t have a draw the way he did when I was nineteen. He’s seen some sun recently, but otherwise he looks much the same.

“Sam.” My voice wavers and Harry immediately tenses next to me. “It’s nice to see you.” He kisses my cheek perfunctorily.

“It’s been a while, certainly,” Sam says. His tone is at once teasing and disapproving. Easier to ignore over text, but it gets my hackles up. 

“Harry.” Styles offers to Sam. He’s waved off the friend he was talking to in favour of turning his attention to me. He doesn’t offer his hand or any pleasantries about how it’s nice to meet him. 

“I’m Sam Aquinas. We’re old friends.” Sam explains. He sits on a chair beside us casually putting one foot on the seat. Harry raises his eyebrow only very slightly. 

“Cassidy’s never told me about you. Please, tell me more.” Harry says in a strange flat tone I think is politeness. He puts his hand on my thigh in an affectionate gesture and I rest my hands on top of him.

“We met in a bar during second year university. I’m a photographer and at the time I did a lot of freelance print work. I shot one of her first major ad campaigns. But eventually I ended up publishing a coffee table book about Toronto, and ad agencies asked me to do more travel work so I left.”

I winced at the mention of the book and Harry must have noticed. That coffee table book had three unauthorized photos of me that spelled the end of the relationship between Sam and I. More than him not taking me seriously, that I couldn’t take. 

“Sam’s a great photographer,” I say quietly. 

“What have you been up to?” Sam asks. 

“Honestly, not much,” I say. I certainly don’t think Sam really cares and I only kind of made it in his eyes. I’m not a reality tv star but I’m not an actress either. I’m a model but the type that fashion shows use to dodge diversity criticisms or make it somewhat edgy. I’m on Youtube but no one is giving me my own spot on television. 

“Cassidy’s launching her fashion line in a few weeks and I promised her parents we would have dinner soon so I’ll be going with her to Toronto in a few days. My family’s away in Majorca right now or we’d join them instead” I can’t tell whether Harry’s serious or just saying it to get Sam off my back but I appreciate it. 

“Actually it’s been a long day, so I think we are going to head out.” Harry says. 

As I lean over, to give Sam an uncomfortable goodbye hug, he whispers, “It’s nice of you to start dating up again. Does he know what you’re like yet?”

“Go fuck yourself Sam.” I whisper back. Sam just laughs as if it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever said. 

As we flag down Harry’s car in front of the building, Harry dips me ever so slightly but his hand is steady on my back. Before I can ask what he’s doing he swoops in and kisses me gently. As if it is ordinary to give kisses from a movie on the front step of a friend’s house. As if we are more than just two messy souls who collided one day in a bar and there is something else at play. Then as we climb into the car, he calls my attention to the corner of the top floor patio where Sam is leaning over the ledge, a drink in hand.

“Your ex was still watching you. What a fucking wanker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> always and forever late  
> love,   
> tumblr: dotsandstripesxo


End file.
